Greasy Spoon Cafeteria
by ElapsingSpiral
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is not the man he was - that's why Alfred loves him. 2nd person POV, character study. Cursing, gay men and bad breakfasts.


You're both sat in the corner of the cafe that reeks of damp, of weak coffee and strong tea, of vinegar and brown sauce. The radio is blaring away, falling in and out of static as though the cafe is swaying in and out of the range of the transmission. The other people in the cafe raise and lower their voices accordingly. They almost predict the radio's habits. You finish your coffee for all it's worth.

He has his head down. You chance a look at him.

He's wearing a polo shirt – blue and white stripes, the collar not lying down quite right and for once he looks his age. Sat there in front of you he gnaws on his lip as he studies the newspaper on the table to the side of his plate and your now empty, chipped mug.

Your eyes also dart down to take in what's caught his interest – the crossword puzzle he was attempting to finish when you walked in. He's got the sports questions, the vocabulary questions, literature, cars. He's put "cock" in place of a clue about a French noun. You doubt somehow that that's correct.

As he stares at the one remaining empty space he aims blindly at his mouth with a triangle of bread with which he's sopped up the remaining mess of runny fried egg yolk and the watery, pinkish juice of the tomatoes on his plate. He misses, daubing the corner of his mouth before finding his target and taking a bite, shaking his head as he scowls at the puzzle.

You smile. He doesn't notice.

His fingers drum on the pitted old tabletop as he clearly approaches the end of his tether with the matter, running one finger across his bottom lip, sucking the tip clean of breakfast thoughtfully. The radio cuts across his concentration. His mouth falls open in joy as a song, a rap, begins to crackle, bellow then fade out again, on the radio on the counter. At last his eyes meet yours, the colour of vintage cars, stormy seas. Ancient forests and polluted seaside waters.

"I love this song. Fucking genius," he says, the curse tripping off his tongue like he's ill-bred – mouth of a pirate, or maybe just a modern young man. He begins to jig in the blue plastic chair, school chairs almost, causing it to creak a little. You raise your eyebrows as he starts muttering, around the mug he raises to his lips, making the words echo and boom, about feeling relaxed enough to crap in someone's mother's flat.

"Tune," he nods solemnly, placing the empty mug back on the table with satisfied, controlled force. You look at that hand. You've seen it, finger pointing and taking whatever it wanted. You've seen it, clenched, not wanting to let go. Now it's just slack, resting on the table top and you notice the long fingers, tapping once again, idly, not impatiently.

His smile about the song lingers in his eyes and the slight wrinkles that surround them. There's still a little egg at the corner of his mouth. His face is immaculately shaven. His hair is too long and it falls across his face, failing altogether to hide those eyebrows.

He goes back to gnawing his lip, eyes back on the crossword and the missing answer.

"I love you," you say. You mean it. You smile into the word, let it take on a life of its own.

His fingers seem to scrabble at the tabletop as though to keep him tethered. Subtly. To anyone else, it wouldn't be noticeable but you see it without even looking for it. His eyebrows shoot up, his mouth drops open and he goggles at you with smooth skin and breakfast across his damn face and you repeat your words again and again in your head.

I love you. I love you, I do. I can't believe how I love you.

He makes a sound like his Mini backfiring as he clears his throat, eyes darting back and forth to observe the other customers who couldn't care less as they eat toast and Mars bars and Full English Breakfasts themselves, in their own bubbles, in their own lives. A tiny, flickering and beautiful little smile creeps reluctantly over his face when he finally hoists his jaw up and closes his mouth.

"Alfred," he mutters when he picks up his pen and writes in the final answer on the puzzle, "Don't be bloody daft."

You can almost mouth the words along with him. You opt for another irritating, obnoxious, bewildered and totally won over smile instead.


End file.
